People, like the characters that we write about, follow similar rules. That’s the foundation of storytelling, we base them on things we already know.
The stillness of the humid night makes my mind wander into a distance that it has rarely traversed into since 2016.
It’s cold outside. It rained earlier. A small shower that soaks through everything that you wear. It’s classic English weather, or so I’ve been told.
Under the light, I can see why people find Jesus intimidating.
It wasn’t hard to get hold of you. You were online when I sent the message. You might have taken a few more minutes to respond than necessary, but you did anyway, and I thank you for that.
The day we talked, the sun was about to set. It turned the sky pink, out at the sea.
2019. It feels like it is a repeat of 2018 but instead of feeling like it launched itself away from the linear timeline, it feels like it is dragging on and occupying the space that 2018 didn’t spend any time occupying.
Has anyone ever felt like their name is not their own name? I’ve been feeling this disassociation for a while now. I’m not even sure if I can confidently tell you my name anymore because it almost feels like I don’t have a name. I just am.
In the dead of night, when there is nothing else around me other than darkness and the quiet rumbling of the air conditioner above me, thoughts I try to push to the back of my mind during the day crawl out to haunt me as I lay on my bed.